Operation: Hamburger Face
by Cyanide and Insomnia
Summary: Drabble. Wild Weasel has been tasked with escorting a very special squadron of elite troops to a full-out assault on the Pit. This could be one of the most unorthodox attacks in COBRA history - and that's INCLUDING the giant vegetable incident.


**An Admittedly Unneeded Disclaimer: **I do not own GI Joe: A Real American Hero or any of its characters, locations or anything else.

This is exceedingly silly.

* * *

><p>Agent M was the top of his class - the most elite among elite - and he, Wild Weasel, had the esteemed privilege of escorting him to the battlefield.<p>

The battlefield in question was none other than the Pit, the enemy's fortress. This wasn't a subtle mission, this was an all-out attack. A show of COBRA's newfound power: twenty or so new but talented and dangerous soldiers hand-picked by the Commander himself, each seated in the co-pilot's chair of twenty or so Rattlers. Wild Weasel never actually bothered to count his squadron, only leapt at the chance to be at the forefront of this sudden and admittedly unusual attack on the filthy Joe forces.

There would be carnage. So much carnage.

A sadistic smile played along his lips behind his oxygen mask as he imagined this delicious carnage.

The best part of it all, he thought, is that they'll never see it coming. Oh, in the _literal _sense they would - after all, they were heading straight for the base - but they wouldn't expect the _specifics _of this attack. It would be one of the most unorthodox attacks in COBRA history. And this is taking that incident with the gigantic vegetables into account.

He still had no idea what the hell was up with that.

A low growl from Agent M to his side startled him from thinking about enormous plant life. He realized then that the soldier had been growling the entire time - he was annoyed, perhaps even impatient to sink his teeth into those Joes. Wild Weasel knew that if his passenger wasn't currently restrained - just until they got to the drop point - he would be taking that aggression out on the pilot himself.

"Easy now, M," The pilot murmured in his most assuring voice, while trying not to imagine the results of the other's wrath directed at himself. "We're almost there."

The growling didn't cease. If anything, this caused the soldier further irritation.

All the same he reached over and gently patted the flank of M's containment unit, although the gesture would probably be much more appreciated if there wasn't a layer of plastic and metal in the way. Then again, the other might just have taken the opportunity to relieve Weasel of his right arm and he rather needed that, thank you.

A large, rather foreboding white shape soon stood out amongst the stretching expanse of the desert outside the Rattler, mere minutes after he had both assured his passenger and began to wonder if they were going the wrong direction.

The Pit.

That sadistic smirk reappeared upon his face, though no one could have seen it.

Show time.

"Approaching drop point," He radioed to his squadron. "Prepare to eject cargo."

"Roger that, Wild Weasel," His squadron radioed back.

Approximately forty miles from the enemy base, he leaned forward and pressed the passenger eject button. The hatch opened and Agent M's containment unit was catapulted into the air, seat and all, a loud yowl indicating the soldier did NOT appreciate being sent flying. Orders are orders, he thought, so you better get over it. A chorus of nineteen or so other yowls told him the rest of the troops had followed suit, and all twenty - or so, although it did look like a solid twenty - units floated peacefully down to Earth via automatic parachute.

Their cargo released, the Rattlers swung back around to land several miles away from the drop point, just as the Joes noticed their presence.

But more importantly, they noticed their little "present".

Now, the orders had been to drop the boxes and go. Let the special troops take care of themselves. But Wild Weasel couldn't help himself - he _had _to stick around to see how this would play out. And like obedient dogs, the other nineteen lower-level pilots decided to stick around with him.

So they hung back and watched.

Watched as a group of Joes - of them, only Ace, Duke, and Scarlett were even vaguely recognizable to Weasel; mostly Ace, whom he hoped would find Agent M as that was the most dangerous of all of them - ceased fire and cautiously stalked towards the twenty little pet carriers sitting on the ground, clearly having no idea what was going on.

Watched as twenty little motion-sensing metal doors sprung open as the Joes got close enough.

Watched as twenty angry cats of various breeds and sizes garbed in little Trooper uniforms launched themselves out of the carriers, claws and teeth aimed directly for the Joes' unsuspecting faces - Agent M, otherwise known as Mr. Mittens, aimed for Ace's face, much to Wild Weasel's enjoyment.

He was right.

There was carnage.

Delicious, delicious carnage.


End file.
